


Liar, Liar

by Nemos_lucky_Cal



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), American Assassin - Vince Flynn
Genre: Based on the books’ characterisation, But no one really that important, Death, Everyone is at least a little bit badass, Fluff, Hopefully this won’t suck too badly, Like the tooth-rotting variety, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemos_lucky_Cal/pseuds/Nemos_lucky_Cal
Summary: Secrets and lies kill relationships.At least, in normal relationships they do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first ever story I’ve put up on AO3 and I hope that it’s not absolutely terrible.
> 
> Hope you like it!

The shiny elevator doors slide open, revealing the short, overweight man standing within the lift. He looks bored; a frown on his face as he scrolls through the endless text conversations on his phone, looking for the one between he and his mistress, to tell her that he’d be late to their rendezvous due to traffic. He’d already texted his wife, telling her that he had to stay late at the office to finish off some important files, not that he heading to a luxury hotel room to stick his dick in the 22 year old gold digger he’d been seeing for past few months.

Stepping out of the elevator, he walks across the second floor car park, passing an array of ferraris, mercedeses, lamborghinis and porsches on his way to his own sports car. He notices a a single mechanic lying underneath a car in a dirty blue boiler-suit, toolbox lying next to him as he works on some billionaire’s Jaguar.

He considers saying ‘hello’ to the mechanic, make his presence known but decides not to waste his breath and continues walking until he reaches his sleek black Maybach Exelero. Pulling the door open, he struggles to look effortless when getting into the car, squeezing himself into the vehicle with difficulty.

Once he’s finally in the car and the panting and puffing has stopped, he glances up into the rearview mirror, steely, grey eyes almost assessing their own reflection. He didn’t realise how much he’d aged, his hairline had started to work it’s way backwards, showing more and more of his shiny, bald scalp. Wrinkles started to etch deeper into his skin; not laughter lines, because they weren’t caused by laughter, they were caused by stress. His teeth have grown yellow and stained by black spots, from his regular use of cigars. Once upon a time, he had been handsome, a man that ladies lusted over and that men wanted to me. Now, he looked like a low-budget Danny DeVito.

But that didn’t mean that the hordes of gorgeous ladies who wanted to sleep with him and the men who would do anything he asked just to have the chance to start making their name in such a ruthless industry, stopped. If anything, it increased. All because he had more money than he knew what to do with.

He’d realised, in this day and age, money makes you hot, not smooth skin and straight teeth. At least for men anyway. With a woman, nice tits and a big ass will never go out of style. 

Dismissing his train of thought and focusing on the fact that he was going to see both tonight, he turns on the engine and begins to pull out of the parking space to make his way to his lady friend’s hotel room.

Slowly, he drives through the maze of pillars and expensive automobiles, looking for an exit. When he eventually spots it, about 100 metres away, he gets ready to put the pedal to the metal but a knock on his window stops him.

Standing outside the window with a sheepish smile on his face, is the mechanic. He’s a young man in his early 20’s with tan skin and a mop of dark hair. He has oil streaked across his face and even more stains covering his boiler suit and yet, he still manages to look boyishly handsome.

He wants to hate this man in front of him, because he’s more good-looking than he ever was at that age but he quells that jealousy by reminding himself that he makes more money in a week than this boy will make in his entire life.

Rolling down his window slowly as to show how pissed off he is, he spits out a gruff “what the fuck do you want?” Even after all these years of living in New York, he’s still unable to shake his thick Italian accent.

“I’m sorry for having to bother you, sir but I was wondering if you had noticed the scratch on the back of your car” the boy says, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck bashfully, resulting in more grease being smeared across his neck.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He screams, shoving his car door open, nearly hitting the mechanic in the process, had he not jumped out of the way. Stamping like an enraged toddler, he makes his way to back of the car before spotting the long, white scrape stretched along the side of his car.

Bringing his leg back, he kicks the car tyre and lets out a screech of rage. The scratch will cost at least $200 to fix and the last thing he wants to do is to have to rain check his date with his gorgeous, blonde mistress just to get his fucking car painted, just so he doesn’t become the laughing stock of the office. 

“Fix this” he snarls, turning back to the mechanic, who has taken a few steps back from the enraged billionaire, in fear that in his tantrum, he’d turn around and punch the mechanic as collateral damage.

“I can’t fix this, I’m a mechanic. I don’t work at an auto-body shop but one of my buddies works in one out in the suburbs, which is really good at. Maybe if I refer you, you’d get a discount” the boy responds, looking between the scratch and the car owner a few times before settling his eyes on the car owner.

“Did I say I wanted a fucking discount?” The man growls, stepping forward and grabbing the mechanic by his hair and pulling him closer. “I said I wanted you to fix my fucking car so I can leave this shithole and end up balls deep in a woman who isn’t my wife. You don’t fucking fix my car right this fucking second, I will remove your vital organs with your own fucking spanner.” 

“I can’t fix your car but I can make the problem go away” the boy stutters, his face a mask of fear, clearly terrified by the man who is holding him by his own hair. 

“Oh yeah? And how are you going to do that, huh?” the tycoon spits, tightening his grasp on the boy’s hair and pulling him even closer, so little flecks of spittle rain down on the boy as the angry Italian curses.

All of the fear disappears off of the boy’s face, almost as though it was never there, as he pulls his right arm back and delivers a sharp punch to the older man’s throat, sending him staggering backwards, eyes bulging and hands releasing the boy’s hair to clasp at his own throat.

Swift as a cat, he spins and ducks at the same time, reaching into the side of his boot and pulling out a knife, as he rises he steps forward out of the turn and buries the blade in the billionaire’s throat.

The tycoon gasps again, spending his final moments watching this faux mechanic pull the blade out of his oesophagus before crumpling to floor, like a puppet without a puppet master.

The mechanic simply watches as the man begins to choke on his own blood, dripping out of his mouth and onto the smooth concrete and beginning to pool.

After he’s certain he’s dead, the mechanic pulls open the back door of the expensive car before turning around and tucking his arms under the corpse’s, before attempting to haul him into the backseat.

The former billionaire was never a slight man, his belly large from drinking so much for so long, it was difficult for the mechanic to force the body into the back of the car, regardless of how muscular he was from spending countless days in the gym.

But eventually, he achieved it and slammed to door shut, not caring when he saw a single finger poking out from the closed car door.

The bastard was dead; he wasn’t going to feel it. 

Slipping into the driver’s seat and shutting the door, the boy pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the car shot forward, leaving between nothing but a small pool of scarlet blood that looks like nothing more than oil in the bad car park lighting.


	2. Chapter 2

The sleek black Maybach Exelero glimmers under the streetlights as it cruises along the highway. The road is quiet; only three cars have passed by since the Maybach pulled onto the usually bustling road. Those cars were probably going to clubs and bars, as most people do, late on a Friday night. Unlike the man in the newly acquired sportscar, who was headed in the opposite direction, out of the city and towards the part of the state, filled with forests and lakes; the last place you’d want to be on a Friday night.

In the backseat of the sportscar, the businessman's body lies in one of the black leather seats, his white, designer shirt stained crimson as the blood continues to drip from the wound in his neck. As the car swerves around a corner, his body slide and his head and upper torso goes forward, leaving him slumped over his own lap, giving him an unnatural and distorted appearance which only occurs in the human body when completely limp. 

In the driver’s seat, the tan, young man sits with his posture relaxed, one hand resting on the steering wheel whilst the other sits casually on the center console as soft rock music quietly plays on the radio. He’s never driven a car like this before and he’s surprised by how smooth it is to drive. He considers asking to keep the beautiful automobile but decides against it; it would be difficult to explain to his friends and family how he managed to afford a car of this stature when he only works as a computer system analyst for an IT company.

The streetlights have disappeared, leaving only the Maybach’s shining headlights lighting the road. Having left the city behind, the man presses down on the accelerator and the car shoots forward, flying down the dark, curving roads. Turning up the volume of the radio, a steady rock song flows through the speakers and he hums along, relaxing him further as he drives into the night.

The sloping cliffs and dark lake, it’s only standout feature being the gleaming reflection of the moon on the water, make for dramatic scenery as the car cruises through the valley, alone. The moon bathes everything in an eerie light, giving everything a ghostly appearance. The scenery combined with the complete isolation he feels, makes him feel as though he’s a character in a movie, whose unknowingly driving towards their own death.

He smirks to himself at the thought. He’d like to see someone try and kill him; they wouldn’t be the first to attempt such a feat and they certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

He drives for another twenty minutes or so, flicking between radio stations as he drives, tailoring the music to suit his mood. He reminisces on the first murder he ever committed. He was sloppy and had it not been for the CIA covering his tracks, he would have been caught for sure and would have spent the rest of his life, rotting in a jail cell. 

Afterwards, he’d been shaky and clammy, pale and sickly; he’d barely been able to get the keys into the ignition, his hands were shaking so bad. In fact, he’d barely made it a mile away from the scene of the crime before he had to stop the car at the side of an abandoned road. He clambered out of the car and vomited violently until he had nothing left inside him to throw up. 

He’d told himself that he’d never do anything like that again. That it was a one-off. That he’d probably crack under the weight of his guilt and surrender himself to the police.

But he didn’t. As time passed, the guilt faded along with it, making his jobs easier to carry out. Nowadays, he realises, he hardly feels anything. No remorse, no regret, nothing.

He can’t tell if that makes him a sociopath or a man whose just incredibly gifted at his job.

Eventually, he presses his foot onto the breaks, slowing the car down before taking a sharp right turn off of the main road and onto a dirt track. He realises then that the Maybach probably isn’t built for this type of terrain as he’s jostled side to side in his leather seat; the car mor a species of the concrete jungle than that of an actual jungle. It’s too late to do anything now except sit back and enjoy the ride.

The squelching sound of the bloodied body rubbing against the black leather seats grates against his ears as he drives, resulting in the radio being turned up loud just to drown out the noise. He’s thankful that he gets to carry out his job at night when the air is cool and there’s barely anyone around; he doesn’t want to think about the smell that the body would produce when stuck in the sweltering midday heat in New York traffic.

At the end of the track, there’s a small lookout point, which very few people other than enthusiastic walkers know about. A grassy hill top which provides a stunning view at all times of the day but particularly at sunrise or sunset; a scenic place to dispose of a body.

When he pulls up on the grass, there’s another car already there. Not as nice as the Maybach but still a nice enough car, the silver 2018 Hyundai Sonata looks vacant, with both its interior and exterior lights off. Thankfully, he knows better.

Killing the engine, the man steps out of the sportscar and saunters over to the sonata. With a devilish smirk plastered across his face, he looks at one of his best friends sleeping soundly in the driver’s seat, with a content expression on his face. 

He considers letting his friend sleep on, finish the job of himself, but he decides against it and knocks on the window. He watches in amusement as his friend as he jolts awake, hand grabbing the gun that’s tucked in the holster he has attached in his footwell. He pulls out the gun and points it at this unexpected assailant, but lowers it when he recognises the wide smirk and laughing eyes looking down at him.

“You’re such a fucking prick” he says, swinging his car open and stepping out to greet his friend. They pull one another into a hug, as though they haven’t seen each other in years and hold each other close for a couple of seconds before releasing each other. The blonde man’s cerulean eyes dart to the expensive sports car, joining the dots in his mind as he looks between his friend and the car.

“He in there?” he asks and his friend nods. They both turn towards the car and in silence, walk towards the car and open the back door, exposing the bloodied body laying in the back of the car. 

“Jesus Christ” he murmurs under his breath, looking at his friend, this man’s murderer. Without a word being spoken between them, they both work together to haul the mountain of a man out of the back of the car before placing him in the driver’s seat, sitting him up before allowing his body to slump over the wheel. Ensuring that the handbrake is off, they close the door and walk behind the car before beginning to push it towards the edge of the cliff. 

The car rolls forward with ease before tips over the edge, plummeting hundreds of feet before it crashes to the ground, laying still on the ground before bursting into a fireball. The two men watch from the safety of above, their faces glowing from the firelight down below. 

They watch for a few minutes before turning back to the blonde man’s car, getting in and driving back into the city, as though nothing happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment what you thought, positive or negative.


End file.
